Wandering Days
by Trollmela
Summary: Three times Maedhros wandered homelessly in Endor after the First Age. Each time it indicated the beginning or the end of a new chapter of his life. Until, at last, he reached home again. (Part of the Lingering series)


**_Author'__s__ note:_**_This story is part of my "Lingering" series. My thanks goes to HaloFin17 for supporting me throughout the creation of the stories: helping me with ideas and capturing plot bunnies, encouragement during the writing process, and finally as a beta with editing and helpful comments. Thank you, my friend!  
_

* * *

_Second Age_

Maedhros rubbed his wrists. The bruises were long gone, but the feeling—the indignity—had remained with him so far. He was unlikely to forget the ropes binding him, put on him by his own brother.

Maglor walked ahead of him, throwing back evaluating, concerned looks at him every so often. The bard had determined their route for a few months now instead of his elder brother, so it hardly mattered if he did it a while longer. Maedhros did not care. Bush, mountains, lake, tree, creek, grasslands, river, hills. It looked all the same to him. What were they even walking for? Where were they headed? Who were they fleeing from?

"Come on, Nelyo," Maglor said, waiting ahead of him.

Maedhros hadn't even realised that he had stopped walking. Instead, he was leaning on his walking stick. Who had ever heard of an elf with a walking stick? Well, unless an orc had chewed off a leg, he supposed. For some reason, the thought was very amusing to him. He started walking again.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"East. And south," Maglor replied.

It had cost Maglor to leave the coast, but he had done it, leaving the distant memory of his Silmaril behind. It still felt strange. They had had them. They had held the jewels in their hands, and even now Maedhros remembered the pain that had come with it and the despair that had followed.

Creek, grasslands, lake, mountains, tree, hills, bush, river. It all looked the same to him.

"Where are we going?" Maedhros asked.

Maglor sighed with exasperation, so low that he probably hoped Maedhros would miss it.

"South. And east," was the reply.

They made rest when night fell. Maglor carried a bow, so he went hunting, ordering Maedhros to rest. Some years ago—not too long ago—the redhead would have collected wood and made a fire in the meantime. Now, his only remaining hand was useless, constantly burning.

Neither of them really slept, so after a while they gave up the pretence of travelling by day and resting by night. The days blurred together.

Hills, mountains, tree, grasslands, bush, river, creek, lake.

Maedhros made progress, even if it did not seem like it at times. His surroundings all still looked the same to him, but at least he acknowledged that his brother was likely not moving them around in circles, and he could at least try to make himself useful. The burns on his hand healed, although it took a long time until pink scars finally covered his palm. He gathered firewood when they rested, but he left the hunting and leading to Maglor. He cared not where they went, not really. Eventually his hand healed enough that he could fish, although the activity exhausted him and led to cramps in his hand. But at least his mind, which had been broken and fragmented after at last losing the Silmarilli, was mending.

"The oath has been fulfilled at least. Now we are free," Maglor had said.

Yes, they were free. Free in Endor and still no closer to home. How many more times would they need to rebuild? How many more times would they need to slink away and lick their wounds? How many more losses would they bear and yet survive?

But Maedhros moved beyond the worst, as he always had before. His mind became clearer, and it now resisted the idea of a well-placed knife or any other deliberate harm against himself. Had he not survived thus far? Had he and Makalaurë not prevailed against those who sought their deaths many times? Would he now do them a favour and die by his own hand?

The longer Maedhros thought about it, the more determined he became to live on. He did not yet know what their purpose would be in this new age, without the Silmarilli to hunt, without Morgoth to fight. But they were sons of Fëanáro and grandsons of great king Finwë. They had seen the world before the sun and the moon, and they would stand tall in the fiercest storm. They would carve a place for themselves, no matter how much it hurt.

Creek, river, lake, grasslands, bush, tree, hills, mountains. A village.

* * *

_IV, Year 1_

Maedhros felt forlorn. Once more his purpose was gone, but this time everyone had cause to be content. Sauron had been vanquished, at long last. Peace reigned and new kings of men had taken up their crowns. The ring-bearers had sailed to their well-deserved rest. Maglor, too, had left, unafraid to follow their foster-son to where his brother still hesitated to go.

The fortress seemed empty and cold now. Any remaining elves serving the brothers had left shortly before the war broke out, and Maedhros did not know whether they had arrived in the West safely. He had prayed—for the first time in a long time—that they would. Not a day went by that he did not think of Maglor and hope that he and the others were well. He went to Imladris for a while, and while Elladan and Elrohir welcomed him, he found that he had no place there either. So, instead, Maedhros was here:

"So you're the elf this lad here saved from wargs."

Maedhros smiled a little. The dwarf had not said: 'So you're the elf who killed all those other elves back in the heyday.' Or: 'So you're the elf who chased after three shiny jewels for more than an age, soaking the earth with the blood of innocents.'

But the dwarf was not unaware of those stories, Maedhros could tell. What respectable dwarf did not know the name Fëanor? The dwarf's eyes were sharp, yet there was no malice in them.

"Yes, I'm that elf," Maedhros replied.

The dwarf harrumphed. "Well, I hope that old age of yours won't slow us down," he said.

The elves could not help it and burst out laughing. This trip was going be good, Maedhros could feel it.

And thus Maedhros, son of Fëanor, travelled with a woodelf and a dwarf across Middle-earth: they visited the old Forest Fangorn, which was a mystery to Maedhros and taught Gimli that not all elves were the same. It was the dwarf's third time in the forest, but apparently he had not warmed to it. Then they continued on to Edoras, where Éomer King gave them a warm welcome, and from there they travelled to the Glittering Caves, where Gimli had established a new dwarven colony. There, Gimli remained, while Maedhros followed Legolas to the elven colony in Ithilien.

Ithilien was again graced with a great forest, and to his surprise, Maedhros rather liked it. It was old and it reminded him of Beleriand.

"Do you wish to stay?" Legolas asked him.

Maedhros wanted to, but he also wanted to leave. He wanted to travel Endor again, for perhaps the last time. Maglor was gone, and he did not remember much of their travels together back in the beginning of the Second Age. And then there were the woodelves. Ithilien was Legolas' colony for his brethren and for anyone who did not want to leave yet, if ever. To this day, Maedhros could not be sure of his welcome among them.

"Perhaps for a while only?" Legolas added, sensing his indecision.

"For a while, yes, I would like that."

Legolas gave him a pleased smile.

The next day, the woodelf introduced him to Prince Faramir, who ruled Ithilien with him. The human, young, dark-haired, his manners showing traces of elven blood, looked positively shocked when Legolas said:

"This is Maedhros, son of Fëanor. He was high king of the Noldor for a time in the First Age."

Faramir bowed deeply. "It's an honour," he said. He was a man of lore and versed in stories of greatness and loss.

Maedhros tilted his head in a polite show of respect.

He did not stay in Ithilien for long. After some years, his desire to travel was greater than his desire to stay in one place—for rest he would not receive east of the sea. He left with good wishes from Legolas and Faramir, and a trusted horse.

Maedhros first went south. He had not been there in a very long time. He travelled through Near and Far Harad, through the desert and the burning sun. He went to where the black Númenóreans had taken refuge ages ago. After the third time he had to dispatch slave traders or others who would take advantage of a lone traveller, he turned east and north. He knew little of the lands there as well.

History said that the first elves awoke in Cuiviénen, on the shores of the Sea of Helcar, beyond the Blue Mountains at the foot of the Orocarni. The Sea was long gone, drained during the War of Wrath. It was peaceful there, but firstborn were no longer to be found, or at least Maedhros did not meet any. He lay down on the shore of a river and imagined being reborn.

He lost himself in the feeling and spent several cycles of the moon there. He slept during the day and walked under starlight at night as Ingwë, Elwë and Finwë had done so long ago.

Then he turned his horse west, to Erebor and Dale first, and Eryn Lasgalen and Lothlórien after that.

* * *

_IV, Year 120_

By the time of King Elessar's death, Maedhros was utterly weary of Middle-earth. He would never have thought it possible, but the time had indeed come and he could not longer resist the longing that was bigger than his fear. He had built a life for himself many times in Endor, in the First Age, in the Second, in the Third and now in the Fourth. The lands had changed radically at the end of the First Age, and he had gotten used to it. He got used to it again in the Third when old realms had fallen and new ones had risen. But now, 120 years into the Fourth Age, he truly felt that it was time to leave.

His fears, and Makalaurë's and Elrond's warnings had come true: the age of men had not only arrived, the race threatened to overrun all others. He missed his brother, and found that he did not want to continue long without him and anything else familiar. He was sick of being uprooted again and again. He missed home fiercely, and there had only ever been one _true _home.

He rode his horse (his last one in Endor) along the River Anduin and into Ithilien until he found Legolas and Gimli. Legolas looked outwardly unchanged, but his eyes were different. He, too, was weary, but also sad to leave. His father Thranduil had still not decided whether to sail or not, Maedhros knew. Neither had Lord Celeborn. Gimli, on the other hand, had changed much. The fiery red colour of his hair and beard, which previously had not been unlike Maedhros' own hair colour, had turned grey. But despite these visible signs of age, his eyes were still wide-awake, and they sparkled at the prospects of a new adventure. His pipe was filled with Longbottom leaf, and he pulled at it with great pleasure while Legolas put the finishing touches on their grey ship.

"Come to join us then?" Gimli asked.

"If your offer is still open," Maedhros replied, giving Legolas an enquiring look.

The woodelf nodded. "It is. I'm glad to have you come with us."

Maedhros would not have said the same if he had been in Legolas' place. How could either of those two young beings be certain that their boat would not sink like a stone, forced down by Ossë's strength, just because of his presence?

"If the boat can handle a dwarf, it can handle you," Gimli said, looking out across the waters and appearing to be completely unaware of Maedhros' thoughts.

In the end, their boat did not sink, although Maedhros kept a careful watch on the sea, which was calm the entire way and made him worry all the more. They sailed through a bank of fog, and Maedhros could feel his fëa start to sing and his heart pound. By the time they saw shores, silent tears had been running down his face for some time, but neither of his companions mentioned it. There had been little talk on the journey overall. Now Gimli laughed, but Maedhros still thought it too early to be joyful.

"Tol Eressëa," Maedhros said. His throat and mouth were dry as if he had not spoken or drunk for months, which was not true.

"All those elvish words," Gimli grumbled. "How do you twist your tongues like that?"

Legolas laughed. "It's not as if you have not learnt them, mellon nin."

"Some of them."

A ship pushed off the shore and approached them, one larger than their own. Legolas hailed them. It soon became apparent that they had sailed out to meet them. The sailors were Teleri, and Maedhros wondered whether if they had come personally to tell them that he could not set foot on Aman.

But they did not.

"Welcome," one said, and threw down a rope. "We will pull you to another landing stage. Alqualondë is… crowded, and there are some who would prefer that Prince Nelyafinwë not step into Alqualondë."

Maedhros thought it could be worse, and Legolas and Gimli accepted it easily. The Teler hardly looked at Maedhros. But he had been the first in ages to call him by this name, for his brother had usually said 'Nelyo' to him, and few in Endor had used his title.

The quay where they did set foot on land was smaller, although how it was less crowded, Maedhros did not know. There were plenty of curious onlookers. He recognised some of the faces: Elrond was there, Artanis, Arafinwë— and Eönwë. Makalaurë was nowhere to be seen, nor any of his cousins and brothers who had died in Endor and should have returned by now, if they had not been forbidden. Unafraid, perhaps even relieved, Maedhros met Eönwë's eyes. The Maia looked blank, neither angry nor pleased.

Elrond and Artanis were the first ones to greet them. Legolas leapt nimbly onto firm ground and cast a wondering look around himself, only acknowledging the others when Elrond stood right in front of him. Gimli was much slower in getting off the boat, and even accepted a helping hand from a Teler.

Maedhros was the last. He did not need help getting on land, but once his feet were on Aman, his knees buckled. He was home. He was actually home after so many years. It was Arafinwë who unexpectedly caught his elbow and steadied him.

"Welcome back, Maitimo," he said.

Arafinwë and he had not been the best of friends or anything alike, and he would not be surprised if Arafinwë had cursed him after the first kinslaying, for Arafinwë had been good friends with the Teleri. Nevertheless he was glad to see him.

Elrond was next, and the half-elf hauled him in for a too-tight-embrace. There were tears in his eyes.

"You took your darn time," he said.

Maedhros blinked away his own tears.

After he had also greeted Artanis, Eönwë came up to him.

"It's time you answered to the Valar for your deeds. Will you come willingly to the Ring of Doom to be judged?"

"Will my family be there?"

"They and others besides."

"I will go." And Maedhros smiled.

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_Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated._


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